


Regeneration

by ImpishTubist



Series: Regeneration [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Language, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-04-25
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When <i>Voyager</i> rescues another human from the Borg, they find themselves with a man who is not only out of place, but also out of time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regeneration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kim J (KimJ_aka_notluvulongtime)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kim+J+%28KimJ_aka_notluvulongtime%29).



> All my thanks to Kim, who is a terrible influence and a wonderful cheerleader. I cannot even begin to say how much fun I had writing this, and how much I enjoyed playing around with different ideas for this ‘verse. Thanks so much for the inspiration and the encouragement. I couldn’t have done this without you, dear.
> 
>  
> 
> This takes place sometime post-“Scorpion.” Needless to say, it’s an AU for _Star Trek: Voyager_ canon from that point onward. This is a standalone one-shot, but it’s entirely possible that I’ll be playing around in this universe again down the line. Feedback, as always, is welcome.

He was found in a junkyard. 

_ Voyager  _ had stumbled across the vast debris field three days ago. From their readings, dozens of whole and abandoned ships floated in this region of space, in addition to parts of ships and a smattering of other unidentifiable scrap metal. 

It wasn’t the remains of a battle, that much they were able to determine. The ships had all been there for varying amounts of time, and dated anywhere from five to twenty years ago. Very few showed signs of weapons damage, in fact. The current theory, first proposed by Harry Kim, was that a nearby planet used this area of space as a junkyard. There were half a dozen inhabited worlds within a few weeks’ travel of the junkyard, and at least three of them were home to space-faring races. 

They catalogued the area and added it to their maps. But there was little of value to be found in the junkyard, and certainly nothing that would aid them on their journey home. It was a curious anomaly at best, and would probably be forgotten in a few days’ time. Kathryn was just about to order Tom to resume their course when Harry stopped her.

“Captain,” he said sharply. “I’m... I don’t believe this, but I’m picking up a signal.”

“What kind of signal?” Kathryn rose from her seat, bracing her hands on her hips as she turned to face him. Harry shook his head, trying to make sense of his readings... and then his eyes went wide. 

“It’s a neural transceiver,” he said quietly. Kathryn felt ice flood her veins, and she exchanged an alarmed look with Chakotay.

There was a Borg in that debris field.

\----

Twenty-four hours later, Kathryn was standing outside of the Brig.

She held a PADD in one hand. The other was curled into a loose fist, and she was silently bracing herself for the conversation to come. 

This was the worst part of her job.

They had managed to salvage the drone from the debris field. He had been alone and unconscious in an alien escape pod; how he came to be there was anyone’s guess, as Borg drones had no sense of self-preservation. Kathryn didn’t see the point in dwelling on that, though, and had gotten them the hell away from the junkyard as soon as the drone had been brought on board.

Borg were not solitary creatures. Where there was one, usually the rest of the swarm was not far off.

The Doctor, in less than eight hours, had been able to remove most of the drone’s cybernetic implants. It had been clear from the beginning that he was human, and that allowed the procedure to proceed largely without hassle. The drone’s extraction from the Collective went a lot better than Seven’s, in fact, and the Doctor didn’t believe he would even need to regenerate. He would be able to sleep and function largely as a normal human being, as over ninety-nine percent of his implants had been successfully removed.

A handful of the crew, in the meantime, had set to work trying to identify the drone. His neural processor had been damaged, but from the information they had been able to salvage from it, it appeared as though this particular drone had been receiving instructions from the Collective for nearly three hundred years.

“That means he originated in either Earth’s twentieth or the twenty-first century,” Harry pointed out. “Captain... that puts the Borg on Earth centuries before Q flung the _Enterprise_ into the Gamma Quadrant. How is that possible?”

No one had an answer for that. But while they didn’t know how, they at least did know _where_. From the information they eventually found stored in the drone’s archives, he had been assimilated by a small colony of Borg who had been hiding underneath London in the early part of the twenty-first century. How they came to be there was a mystery, and how they escaped the planet was even less clear. But there was no way those records could have been faked. And, within a few hours, they had finally been able to give the Borg a name. 

Kathryn brushed her fingers over the screen of the PADD. _Greg Lestrade,_ it said in bold green letters at the top, and then went on to detail his life history, from his birth all the way up to his disappearance in 2020. 

She sighed heavily through her nose. There was a man on the other side of those doors, one who was not only out of place but out of time. His link to the Collective had been severed, and if one were to say he was confused, that was putting it very mildly. He might have been born human, and an individual, but the only life he had ever really known was Borg. Kathryn remembered how lost Seven had been when they removed her from the Collective. She had been reminiscent of a ship adrift at sea.

And now that this Borg’s link had been severed, no doubt his memories were returning. This man had lived out half a lifetime in a completely different century before his assimilation. He’d had a career, a life... and a family. 

To him, what seemed like only a moment ago was actually hundreds of years. His family had long ago turned to dust and ash, and his ancestors were half a galaxy away. He was going to be mourning people no one else remembered.

She truly hated this part of her job, and now that it was complicated by these factors... well, she didn’t really know how to handle this. 

And neither would he.

Kathryn drew a breath and stepped through the doors. 

“Lieutenant,” she greeted the security officer who was standing watch. “How is our guest?”

“Quiet,” Lieutenant Andrews said after a moment’s contemplation. 

Indeed, this Borg - no, this _man_ \- seemed much more subdued than Seven had been right after they severed her link with the Collective. He was standing in his cell, his back to Kathryn, dressed in plain civvies and with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn’t spoken a word since being woken up in sickbay six hours ago. They had explained the situation to him twice, but it wasn’t entirely clear whether he comprehended everything they told him.

Keeping him in a cell was a precaution at this point, at least until they could communicate with him--and until the Doctor was absolutely sure he had removed all the cybernetic implants. The last thing they needed right now was a rogue Borg with a stray link to the Collective. 

Kathryn cleared her throat.

“Greg.”

He stiffened, shoulders going ramrod straight, but he didn’t turn to face her. Kathryn’s hand tightened on the PADD she held, and she dropped her gaze to its contents, even though she had memorized them last night simply from the number of times she had read through it.

“Your name is Greg Lestrade,” she said quietly. “Do you remember that?”

The man still didn’t turn, but she could see that his breathing was becoming rapid. 

“You were born on Earth,” she continued in a soft voice, “in 1968. You had two parents and one sibling. You were a police officer in London. And in 2012, you married a man named _John_. Lieutenant, if you could give me an opening.”

The lieutenant standing behind her at the controls hesitated, and then opened a small hole in the forcefield, just large enough for Kathryn to stick her hand through. She flipped a page on the PADD to a picture of the man in question and put the tablet through the forcefield. She stood there for a long moment, watching the former drone’s back, silently pleading with him to turn around.

After a long while, he did. 

The man’s skin had mostly returned to its normal hue, though it did appear slightly ashen. It was at least no longer steel grey, as was customary of Borg drones. The Doctor had also stimulated his hair follicles, and he was now sporting a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, though it was more salt than pepper, truth be told. The ocular implant that was customary on all Borg drones had been removed, and a pair of chocolate-colored eyes stared back at her. 

The Doctor hadn’t managed to get rid of all the former Borg’s implants, however. Three of the fingers on the man’s right hand were entirely cybernetic. Whether he had lost the fingers due to an accident or to purposeful amputation was unclear, but the cybernetic ones were completely functional. And, now that the Doctor had rendered the assimilation nodules inert, they were also completely harmless.

The former drone stared at Kathryn with haunted eyes, and then finally dropped his eyes to the PADD she was offering him. He took it.

“You were officially declared missing in 2020,” Kathryn went on, quietly. “You... were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know none of this makes sense right now, but you stumbled across a rogue colony of Borg who had taken refuge in an abandoned Tube tunnel. How they came to be there in the first place... well, we’re not entirely clear on the details. But they captured you. You’ve been living as a cybernetic being ever since, with the extended lifespan that goes along with that. I’m so sorry, but it’s been over three hundred years since that day. Technically speaking, you’re a little over four hundred years old.”

Greg still hadn’t lifted his eyes from the PADD. He brushed his hand over the picture, two of his cybernetic fingers scraping across the screen.

“John,” he said finally, blinking rapidly. 

“Do you remember him?” Kathryn asked softly. “You were married for eight years before your assimilation. From the records he left behind, it seems he loved you dearly. And... and you had a child. David. Do you remember that?”

Greg looked up at her. Kathryn couldn’t tell if he was comprehending any of this, let alone remembering it, but she went on.

“They lived very long lives. John was ninety when he passed away. He died in his sleep. And your son... he was very happy. He missed his father, of course, but he eventually married and gave you five grandchildren. He... he followed in your footsteps. He became a police officer, too.”

“Dave.”

His voice was gravelly, and hoarse with disuse.

“What was that?”

Greg swallowed several times, as though he was trying to force the words out and couldn’t get his throat to cooperate. 

“He... preferred _Dave.”_

Kathryn’s mouth tugged downward in sympathy.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” she said gently. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through right now. But I do want you to know that, while it doesn’t seem like it right now, you _are_ our guest on this ship. We’re only trying to help you. But we’ve had some nasty run-ins with the Borg, and this cell is as much for your protection as it is ours. Once we’ve ascertained that you’ve made the transition completely, you’ll be allowed out.”

Greg’s gaze didn’t waver from her face. She wondered how much of this he was processing, if anything. She went on regardless. 

“I’ll have someone activate the computer for you,” she said, pointing at the screen in the corner of the cell. “You can access our database from there. Everything is voice-activated. Just make a request, and the computer will pull up the information for you. You can read about all of the history you’ve missed over the past few centuries. It might help. The Doctor will be checking on you twice a day, and someone will bring you meals. We’ll make your stay in here as comfortable as possible, I promise.”

If he comprehended her words, he didn’t show it. Greg stared at her for a while longer, and then turned away.

She glanced back at him on her way out of the room. He was once again staring at the picture of his son.

\-----

Kathryn called a staff meeting the next day just before the start of alpha shift, and quickly filled everyone in on everything they now knew about their drone. Most of the staff was aware of the most recent developments, but some--like Tom--had been at their posts throughout the majority of the excitement.

She had a feeling that the drone’s name would be recognizable to some of her staff. Tom was the one who placed it first. He leaned forward, his lips parted in shock. 

“You’re kidding,” he said at last. “Greg Lestrade? _The_ Greg Lestrade?”

B’Elanna and Chakotay shot him a blank look. Kathryn nodded. 

“It would seem our visitor is something of a celebrity already,” she said to the puzzled faces around the table. “How many of you remember learning about Sherlock Holmes in school?”

“Hell, I remember _reading_ his cases,” Tom cut in, excited. “Oh, come on, you guys. Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective? He was famous in twenty-first-century London. He had a business partner who kept a record of all his cases. They were eventually published in book form when the Internet died out. Greg Lestrade was featured quite prominently in many of the early cases, until his mysterious disappearance. This is _unbelievable_ , Captain!”

Kathryn couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

“I share your excitement, Tom, believe me,” she said. “And that’s precisely why neither of us can help him. I want someone to be his liaison here on the ship--help him get acclimated to the technology, familiarize him with all of the history he’s missed. He’s from a time when humans thought they were alone in the galaxy. He’s never seen another humanoid species. It’s going to be a big adjustment, and he’ll need help. And I want it to be someone who doesn’t know who he is. I think the last thing Mr. Lestrade needs is someone fawning over him. No offense, Tom.”

“None taken.” There was a beat. “Though I might still ask for an autograph.”

A light round of laughter rippled around the table. Kathryn turned to Chakotay.

“Commander, I think you should be the one to help Mr. Lestrade get used to this new life,” she said. “I think he’d respond best to another human, as well as to someone who isn’t aware of his fame.”

Chakotay nodded. 

“I’ll do my best, Captain. Though to be honest, I don’t know where to start.”

Kathryn gave him a reassuring smile. 

“Neither do any of us. These are uncharted waters, Commander. But I think that a bit of empathy will go a long way. Dismissed, everyone.”

\-----

Chakotay spent the next few hours of his duty shift in his office, poring over everything in the database that pertained to Sherlock Holmes. 

It was astonishing, really, how much the man had permeated Earth culture. An astounding amount of literature surrounding his legend had been produced in the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries. There were dozens of reprints of his cases, which had been faithfully recorded by John Watson. In addition to that, there were biographies and fictionalized accounts of cases he might have solved. Holmes had stirred the imaginations of generation after generation, and Watson’s books were still a staple in Earth classrooms.

In a way, Chakotay mused, the three men were immortal. But he doubted that would be of much comfort to the one of them who still lived; to the widower who never had a chance to say goodbye to his husband, and the father who never got to see his son grow up.

Chakotay read until his eyes burned and the words stopped making sense. Then, he pushed himself out of his chair and made for the brig. 

The former drone was sitting on the floor in a shadowed corner of his cell, cross-legged, his hands folded in his lap. His gaze was fixed blankly on the opposite wall, but he looked up when Chakotay approached the forcefield. 

They stared at one another for a long moment. Lestrade’s face was unreadable, and Chakotay found that he didn’t really know what to say. 

“Am I a prisoner?” Lestrade asked finally. His voice was sandpaper-rough and dusty. Chakotay wondered when last he had had reason to use his vocal cords. As far as he was aware, Borg largely didn’t speak out loud. 

“No,” he said at last. “Mr. Lestrade -”

“Inspector,” Lestrade interrupted. His voice was low, but commanding. Chakotay paused at the abrupt tone.

“Inspector Lestrade,” he said, inclining his head. “I’m Commander Chakotay. Ship’s first officer. I’ve been assigned to you, to help you make the adjustment.”

Lestrade’s face was still inscrutable, but his eyes hardened.

“I don’t need a -” He broke off, searching for the word. The Doctor had said that this might happen, and Seven could attest to it from personal experience. His brain was still adjusting to thinking--and functioning--on its own. Chakotay waited patiently. “Handler. I don’t need a handler.”

“Perhaps not, but you do need a guide,” Chakotay pointed out gently. “Did you get a chance to access the database last night?”

Lestrade pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the boundary that separated them. His movements were stiff, but his motor skills appeared to be largely intact. He crossed his arms and stared hard at Chakotay.

“If I’m not a prisoner,” he said quietly, “and I’m not being accused of a - of a -”

“Crime,” Chakotay supplied, and Lestrade nodded.

“Then let me out of this cell,” he finished. His jaw was tight and his eyes were steel. He looked as though he was preparing to defend his position; as though Chakotay was going to deny his request. 

“Lieutenant,” Chakotay said, his eyes not leaving Lestrade’s face. “You heard the man. Lower the forcefield.”

“But sir -”

“That was an order,” Chakotay said firmly. A moment later, the forcefield vanished, and the only thing that separated them was air. Chakotay took a step back, and Lestrade stepped out of the cell. His gaze was still wary, but he also looked deeply grateful. The tension melted immediately from his shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“I can take you on a small tour of the ship,” Chakotay said. “If you’re interested.”

“Er... right. Yeah, might as well,” Lestrade said absently. He wasn’t a very animated man, Chakotay was noticing, but he was willing to bet that was almost all due to shock.

Chakotay realized about ten minutes later what poor planning this had been on his part. He should have waited until gamma shift to visit Lestrade, not alpha. This was when the ship was at its busiest, and Lestrade attracted his fair share of curious stares. The ship was a lot quieter in the middle of the night. He would have largely been left alone.

“I suppose I should have mentioned this earlier,” Chakotay said as they stood in a secluded area on the second level of engineering, bathed in the blue light from the warp core, “but you’re, uh, rather well-known among humans. Especially those from the Terran system.”

“Am I?” Lestrade’s voice lacked inflection. He was distracted by the engineers bustling below them, and by the warp core itself. “Why?”

“Your husband’s stories. The cases you worked with Sherlock Holmes, the ones John Watson recorded. There’s not a schoolchild from Earth who doesn’t know them.” 

That drew Lestrade’s attention, and he peered at Chakotay. It was a bit like being placed under a spotlight, so intense was the stare, and Chakotay fought the urge to take a step back at the scrutiny. “You didn’t know me.”

Chakotay shook his head. “I may be human, but I’m not from Earth. I was born on a planet called Dorvan V.”

Lestrade was quiet for a moment, processing this. 

“They still read them?” he asked softly. “John’s words?”

“His works are beloved,” Chakotay told him. “He’s well-remembered. Holmes as well.”

A group of engineers brushed past them, muttering apologies whilst staring openly, and Lestrade shrank back from their gazes. He was not a man used to attention, Chakotay surmised. It was making him distinctly uncomfortable.

“Damn it all,” Chakotay muttered under his breath. “Look - let’s get out of here. Go someplace quieter. Come on.”

But the Mess Hall was out of the question at this time of day, the holodecks were in use, and Lestrade was probably not prepared to deal with the bridge at this point. 

They ended up back in Chakotay’s quarters, where it was quiet and Lestrade was finally away from curious eyes. 

“They all mean well,” Chakotay said, gesturing for Lestrade to sit on the couch. “They’re just curious. Would you like something to drink? This is a replicator, by the way. It’ll make virtually anything you can think of.”

“Coffee, thanks,” Lestrade told him.

“How do you like it?”

There was a pause.

“You know,” Lestrade said finally, in mild surprise, “I can’t remember.”

“How about tea, then?” Chakotay ordered two cups of his grandfather’s favorite tea, and handed one to Lestrade. He sat down in a chair opposite the couch, cradling his drink in his hands. “The memory loss is normal. The Doctor says it might be some time before your memories come back completely.”

“Or they might not,” Lestrade said. He gave a wry smile. “I’ve spoken with him, too. Apparently, there’s very little precedent for this situation. He doesn’t really know what to expect. Though he seems to think I’ll have a normal lifespan. For all intents and purposes, I’m the same age now as I was when they -”

He broke off suddenly, waving a hand vaguely as his expression clouded. And then he frowned.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “what _is_ a normal lifespan these days?”

“For a human male, around one-hundred and sixty. Give or take a decade.”

“Jesus,” Lestrade muttered. He dropped his gaze to his drink, and then took a tentative sip. “That’s twice as long as in my time.”

“Medical science has come a long way in three hundred years,” Chakotay told him. “We’ve eliminated a majority of the diseases that plagued twenty-first-century Earth. Well, except the common cold. Never could get rid of that one.”

They shared a dry chuckle. 

“So this ship,” Lestrade glanced around the room, “you’re all as lost as I am, aren’t you?”

“You read that far into the database, did you?” Chakotay was impressed. “We’ve been out here for four years now. We started out about seventy thousand light years from Earth. It would have taken us seventy-five years to get home. We’re down to just under four decades now, and constantly looking for more shortcuts.”

Chakotay talked for a time, relaying as much of _Voyager_ ’s journey so far as he could. A lot of it, he could see, Lestrade didn’t fully comprehend, but he listened intently, no doubt filing his questions away for later. It was only when Chakotay started to lose his voice that he stopped speaking, and realized that nearly two hours had passed. His tea was long since cold; Lestrade’s was gone. 

“Tell me about yourself,” Chakotay said finally, his voice hoarse. “I know you don’t remember everything, but you must have some sense of who you are.”

“Some,” Lestrade agreed. “But it’s... strange. I don’t know how to describe it. It’s like... I have these memories, but they’re not mine. They’re someone else’s. They’re like a dream.”

“Do you remember your time with the Collective?”

Lestrade’s face darkened. 

“I do,” he said quietly. “Not all of it. But I know what I was, and what I did.”

“None of that was your fault,” Chakotay told him. “You were -”

But Lestrade shook his head and dropped his gaze to his hands, signaling that he was done discussing the Borg for now.

“I had a boy,” he said after a moment. “David. He liked strawberries and pizza, and blue was his favorite color. And I had a husband. John. He drank tea like it was water, and he wore the most _god-awful_ jumpers.” Lestrade swallowed. “I know these things. And yet... and yet I don’t _feel_ them. Not completely. That’s not good.”

“That’s normal,” Chakotay said, remembering Seven’s transition--and how she was still relearning much of what she had lost. “It’s a lot to process, and the brain can’t handle it all at once. Not dwelling on it might be a coping mechanism.”

Lestrade nodded absently. His gaze traveled to the replicator in the corner, and he looked contemplative for a moment.

“That... replicator,” he said slowly. “Can it make things, too? Objects?”

“Of course.”

“Like a photograph?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade rubbed his empty left ring finger absently. He then got up from his seat and walked over to one of the windows, and spent a long moment staring out at the darkness. 

“We’re on the port side of the ship,” Chakotay said. He gathered both of their cups and put them back in the replicator for recycling. “In case you were wondering.”

“It’s strange,” Lestrade said finally. “I’m not used to looking out of a window and not recognising the stars. Do they have names?”

“I’m sure they do. This area of space is inhabited by several different species, and they all have stories about the stars. Just like humans do.” Chakotay came to stand next to him. “The crew sometimes likes to name the stars we come across. Like that one there? That’s a red giant. Lieutenant Carmichael calls it _Ladybug_. And let’s see... oh, those three stars over there? On the planet Dervina, the inhabitants believe that’s where their spirits will go when they die. We came across them a few weeks back. Lovely people. Bit too fond of snakes for my liking, though.”

This finally got a reaction out of Lestrade, and he snorted. 

“Sherlock once put a bunch of snakes in my bathroom,” he said. And then at Chakotay’s puzzled look, he added, “It was an experiment. Long story. Anyway, one of them got away. Turned up in my bed a week later, happy as a clam. You know, I’ve never understood that phrase. Are clams actually happy?”

Chakotay, who was becoming used to the non-sequiturs, laughed. Lestrade offered him a weak smile in return, but Chakotay could see the exhaustion tugging at the corners of his eyes. 

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you to sickbay. The Doctor will have my head if I don’t let him run another round of scans on you. Besides, I can get your quarters set up in the meantime.”

\-----

Chakotay, after profuse apologies that Lestrade waved away, ended up assigning a security detail to accompany him to sickbay.

“Captain’s orders,” Chakotay said regretfully. “Look, I don’t think you’re a danger -”

“But you don’t _know_ that,” Lestrade pointed out, “and neither do I, actually.”

The mere thought of that made him feel ill, and he swallowed hard. He had already committed numerous atrocities against his will, all of them thanks to that blasted Borg technology. Who was to say he wouldn’t do it again, even if he didn’t mean to?

Chakotay looked uneasy, but finally nodded. He left Lestrade in the hands of the Doctor, and told the security team that they were to escort Lestrade to his new quarters as soon as the exam was over. 

“Deck three, section twelve,” he told them. “I’ll go make sure it’s been set up properly. And then I really should get back to the bridge. Inspector -”

“Greg.” Lestrade put out his hand, and Chakotay shook it. “Thank you.”

Chakotay nodded, and was gone.

The exam itself was relatively painless, and Lestrade spent most of it trying to make sense of the Doctor. He’d been told the man was a hologram--which was a very realistic and sophisticated computer program, he gathered--but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

“You seem real,” he said as the Doctor touched his hand, examining the implants left behind. His flesh was warm.

“I _am_ real,” the Doctor retorted, and reached for a medical scanner. He kept up a running commentary as he examined Lestrade, usually pointing out Lestrade’s obvious lapses when it came to looking after his physical health.

“I _did_ spend three hundred years as a machine,” Lestrade pointed out.

“Yes, well, that’s no excuse for half-clogging your arteries in the fifty-two years prior to your assimilation, Mr. Lestrade. What _did_ you eat on a day-to-day basis? No, on second thought, don’t tell me - I don’t want to know.”

The Doctor’s snide remarks reminded Lestrade sharply of Sherlock, and he had to bite back a smile.

“How’s the heart?” Lestrade asked later as the Doctor ran his scanner over his chest for the third time, frowning. He cocked an eyebrow at Lestrade.

“Have you been running laps on deck twelve in the past hour?”

“Er... no.”

“Then it’s not that good. And would you look at the state of these lungs! Don’t tell me - on top of everything else, you were a smoker. All of you twenty-first century humans were.”

“Have you run into many twenty-first century humans out here?” Lestrade asked dryly, and that remark earned him another half an hour of pointless scanning.

For all his biting remarks, though, the Doctor was gentle when it came to his patients, and that was all John. Lestrade felt something twist in his chest as he was reminded of his long-dead friends, and had to look away from the Doctor’s face.

“Are you feeling all right?” the Doctor asked in mild concern, staring at the device he was holding. “Your heart rate just went up.”

“I’m fine. Just remembered something unpleasant,” Lestrade muttered.

He was finally dismissed from sickbay a few minutes later and led to his new quarters.

“You boys aren't going to stand out here all night?" Lestrade asked, pausing on the threshold and looking at the two security officers who had escorted him. They exchanged a glance, and then looked back at him. He sighed. “Right, yeah, should have known. Well... goodnight.”

The rooms that he would now call home were sparsely furnished. There was a sofa tucked up against one long wall in the main living area, just under the windows, and a lamp stood next to it. A small kitchenette was off to Lestrade’s left, and on the opposite side of the room was a door that he surmised led to the bedroom. Everything was a blend of greys, blues, and blacks, and he felt tired just looking at it all.

The only bit of color came from the dining area, and it took Lestrade a few seconds to notice the sole object that looked as though it hadn’t come with the quarters. He walked over and picked up a small frame that someone had left sitting out on the table. He turned it over, and something caught in his chest. 

_ John. _

He was dressed in his uniform, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray from hours spent on the dance floor. A gold band glinted on his hand. Their wedding day.

A small note was pinned to the frame. _Press the blue button for the next picture_ , it read, and so Lestrade did. A new picture took the place of the first one, this time of David.

His boy was sitting on John’s lap and laughing, his blue eyes alight and his blond curls framing his tiny face. He was perhaps three or four, but Lestrade couldn’t remember the context of the picture. He couldn’t recall when the next two had been taken, either, but they were also of David. The fourth one was of Sherlock, bent over a microscope while David sat next to him at the table.

A sharp stab of pain twisted in Lestrade’s gut, and he sank to his knees, flipping through the myriad photographs, only able to remember about when half of them were taken. He didn’t recognize a lot of the faces, either, though they stirred an impression in him--usually affection; sometimes sorrow. 

And David grew up before his eyes, surpassing ages five, six, and seven. Lestrade himself disappeared entirely from the pictures halfway through David’s eighth year, and John aged close to a decade in only a matter of months that year. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, touching John’s worn face, wishing he could brush away the sorrow. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m alive. I was always alive.”

_ I didn’t mean to leave you _ . 

David grew from a little boy to a lanky teen and then to a young man. John aged handsomely, and from what Lestrade could tell, Sherlock never completely left their lives. He disappeared from the photographs first, though, and Lestrade couldn’t bear to ask the computer what had happened to him. John followed, years after seeing his grandchildren-- _their_ grandchildren--born. 

After that, there was only David. David, with the wife Lestrade never met. David, with the grandchildren Lestrade would have loved to know. David, the boy who just the other day had been sitting on the sofa with his parents, watching television and chatting about his day at school.

David, who had been dead and gone for three hundred years. 

The album eventually cycled back around to the first picture; to their beginning. Lestrade stared at John, and the lines of laughter that were etched into his face. He stared at it until he could see it no longer; until the picture blurred and the colors ran together and the dam that had been building in his chest finally gave way. 

Lestrade buried his face in his hands, and wept. 

\----

At first, Chakotay thought that Astrometrics was empty.

But the screen that covered the far wall had been left on, and Seven was never that careless with the equipment. A series of images were flashing across the screen, each one lingering for a few moments before being replaced by another. 

They were all of Earth, and Chakotay knew then that his suspicions had been correct.

“You’re a difficult man to track down,” he said as he stepped fully into the room. The door hissed shut behind him. He crossed over to the raised platform and found Lestrade seated on the floor just behind the console, gazing at the images of Earth that covered the massive screen. 

“I didn’t realise anyone was looking for me,” Lestrade said, his voice as lacking in inflection now as it had been during their initial meeting three days ago. 

Chakotay joined him on the floor and set his burden between them. Lestrade glanced at it and raised an eyebrow.

“I could be mistaken,” he said, bemused, “but I believe I read that alcohol was strictly against regulation on these ships.”

“The perks of being a first officer,” Chakotay said with a smirk. He poured them both a glass of the ale. “I’m sorry I haven’t been by lately. It’s been a bit chaotic. Have things been all right?”

Their most immediate concern, after removing the implants and making sure Lestrade’s condition was stable, had been figuring out how best to integrate him into the ship. Tom had been the one to suggest placing him in Astrometrics with Seven, as Lestrade appeared to have a genuine interest in astronomy and would probably also benefit from spending some time with a fellow ex-drone. Chakotay had been apprehensive about the whole thing, in all honesty. Patience was hardly Seven’s best quality.

To his surprise, though, Lestrade gave a small but genuine smile. 

“She’s an interesting one, Seven,” he said, his voice almost fond. “Brilliant woman, and damn if she knows it, too. Reminds me of someone I used to know.”

Another image of Earth appeared on the screen, this time a view of the northern hemisphere. The date stamp in the lower corner said _May, 2012._ Chakotay sipped from his drink. In the periphery of his vision, Lestrade’s sober face was bathed in the soft green light from the screen.

“Reminds me of how damned useless I am, actually,” he added quietly. “I don’t belong here. This place, this time... it’s not my own. Everything I’m good at is three hundred years out of date.”

He took a bitter swallow of his drink.

“I miss my boy,” he said finally. “I miss John. Every day I remember them more and more... and every day takes me further away from them.”

Chakotay didn’t know what to say to that, and couldn’t think of anything that Lestrade would want to hear. He reached for the bottle instead, and topped off both their glasses. 

The next picture was London as seen from space at night. Thousands of pinpricks of light clustered in the center of the screen, and grew sparse as they fanned out and eventually disappeared into the black of the countryside.

“But joy cometh in the morning,” Lestrade murmured, his voice distant. His eyes, when Chakotay glanced at him, were overbright and golden as he stared at the image.

“What was that?”

Lestrade blinked, coming back to himself.

“It’s Scripture,” he said finally. _“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”_

“That’s lovely.”

“Mm.” Lestrade took another sip from his glass. “I don’t suppose that exists anymore, either. Religion.”

“It does,” Chakotay told him. “In many different forms. Humans still keep their different gods, but there are others as well. The Klingons worship Kahless; the Bajorans worship the Prophets. The Ocampa believe the Caretaker is divine.”

“Strange new world.” Lestrade drank from his glass for a moment, watching the screen. “I never really believed. I don’t think there’s a divine reason why all this happened to me. I think I was a damned idiot to go down into that tunnel alone, but no deity engineered it. It wasn’t fate, it was just bad timing.” He drew a deep breath through his nose. “But there are some things that I have to believe are truths. I have to, or I’d never be able to get out of bed every day.”

Lestrade held his drink aloft, silently toasting the images of a long-gone Earth. When he spoke again, his words were a quiet affirmation.

“Joy cometh in the morning.”


End file.
